


been running to save my head

by slaymouse



Series: you’ve got time to figure it out [3]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fem!Michael, Homophobic Slurs, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Abuse, Physical Abuse, Transphobia, Verbal Abuse, not really but they're around that age, trans!michael, transphobic slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaymouse/pseuds/slaymouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, when she would be asked to describe what happened that night, she would regret to inform everyone that she didn’t remember what had occurred next. Just that when she finally came back to herself, she was thirteen blocks away and sobbing in a children’s playground (her doctor would claim anxiety attack, her psychologist subconsciously repressed memories; both would agree to prescribe her Xanax).</p>
            </blockquote>





	been running to save my head

_What the fuck are you trying to accomplish here, Mitch? Make things even worse for yourself?_ Thoughts rattled in the nineteen year old’s head as she rounded the corner, finally catching view of the house she had grown up in, but never truly called a home.

Shaking her head, she stopped out on the road out front and pulled off her gloves, stuffing them into her pockets.

“You can do this,” she reassured herself aloud, tossing the negativity away as best possible. “Just get in, prove them wrong, and get the fuck out of dodge.”

Finally working up some nerve, Mitch began her trek towards the house. As she approached, the floodlights illuminated the otherwise dark night. Before she even made it to the front porch, the door opened to reveal her father, still in his work attire, through clearly more disheveled.

“Alexan-” he stopped himself suddenly, pausing for a moment with an unreadable expression. “Sorry, Michelle. I’m glad you decided to come.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll figure out if I feel the same way in a minute,” she bit out.

A moment passed and her father made no move to let her in, “Are we doing this out here or..?”

“Sorry. Come inside,” he said, disappearing past the entryway. Mitch took a second to breath, stuffed her hands into her pockets, and stepped into the front hall.

From first glance, it looked like nothing had changed within the past three years of her living there. Her father puttered about in the kitchen and as of so far, she had no idea where her mother was.

Mitch moved further into the house, and doing so, revealed her father holding half a bottle of whiskey. She tried not to look too shocked, “You started drinking?”

The man scoffed, mumbling, “Something like that..”

“Does mom know?” she pushed, watching him take a long swig from the bottle. Suddenly, her gut twisted and she knew something was very wrong.

“Why does it matter? It’s not like you’re here to give a damn anyway.”

“That was your choice,” Mitch defended herself, swallowing hard.

Another humourless laugh, “No, you made your decision first, if I remember correctly,” he took another heavy gulp. “You were the one who came into my home disobeying the rules your mother and I set to protect you.”

Mitch sighed, laughing bitterly, “If all you called me here to do was disrespect me, I’m leaving,” she threatened. “I’ve told you a thousand times before that this wasn’t a choice; I was born this way.”

“Oh, yadda yadda! Cry me a river,” her father mocked, slamming the bottle onto the counter. Mitch flinched. “You and I both know that that’s a load of shit! You made your choices and suffered the just consequences!”

At the shout, Mitch flinched slightly. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, reopened them to stare her father down, “I don’t have to listen to this.”

Turning on a heel, she was halfway to the door when her father grabbed her roughly by the elbow, grip tight enough to bruise.

“Ow,” she grit out through clenched teeth. And again, “Let go of me.”

“No. I think it’s about time I taught you something I should’ve a long time ago. That wearing mascara and skirts doesn’t change the fact that you’re nothing but a sick faggot,” he said scarily calm; Mitch almost wished that he’d been shouting.

“Fuck you,” she retorted mindlessly and before she’d even seen it coming, her cheek throbbed with the force of her father backhanding her. The teen stumbled back into the wall.

“How dare you talk to your dad like that in his home,” he growled.

“Then let me leave,” Mitch demanded, righting herself despite the sting of her face. “You don’t want me here and I don’t want to be here. I’m sorry I even tried to give you a second chance; you didn’t deserve it.”

This time, Mitch braced herself for the blow about to come. Again, the hand raised and fell, however this time in the form of a fist. She felt the wet of her hairline before she really registered the scrape of his ring across her forehead; fingers prodding the wound coming back scarlet were only a confirmation.

“How dare you,” she ground out, fighting back tears.

“Why? It’s only frowned upon to hit a girl. None of those here,” he snarled, grinning maliciously.

As soon as Mitch had pulled herself back into a steady position, she stormed for the door. Her fingers had just closed around the handle, when her scalp erupted with fiery pain.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she babbled as she was dragged back into the kitchen by her hair, “I didn’t mean to disrespect you!” she cried, falling back into the ‘good catholic schoolboy’ routine she’d grown up playing.

He smirked and forced her to the ground, fingers still twisted in auburn strands, “Maybe you were right. You can’t be a man with how pathetic you are; maybe you are a disgusting tranny.

“Or maybe you’re still Alexander, and you’re just a sissy fag. Either way,” he continued, “you’re not my son; this isn’t how I raised you to act. This isn’t how your mother and I brought you up!”

“Daniel!” came a voice from the doorway, laced in shock. “What on earth do you think you’re you doing?”

The hand in her hair recoiled and for the first time in four years, Mitch could honestly say that she was glad to see her mother.

Without her father’s violent grip on her hair holding her up anymore, the teenager dropped to the floor like a stone. She curled in on herself, sobbing, and the man above her sneered.

“Teaching our son a lesson,” he spat, glaring at Mitch at word son. She hiccupped and across the room, Mitch’s mother set her groceries onto the counter.

“I’m not your son-” Mitch began, but her father stomped next to her violently and she yelped.

“Shut up,” he hissed, “no one gave you permission to speak.”

Her mother stalked closer, but didn’t dare come close enough for her husband to reach, “Daniel, I thought you wanted to bring him here to talk? To try and convince him to return to the church? To repent?”

Mitch watched helpless on the cold tile floor, feeling ready to throw up at any given moment. Above her, her parents continued to argue, her father stalking forward slightly, getting into his wife’s face, screaming. She could barely hear them above the sound of blood rushing in her ears and her own hysterics.

He took another threatening step at her mother and Mitch looked up for escape; the path from here to the door was a clear one. She’d just have to hope that they distracted each other long enough for her to run.

And run she did.

As soon as the opportunity arose, she scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door. The knob turned with shaking hands, the door opened, and Mitch registered her deadname being screamed behind her.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind her, she began to sprint, desperately dashing away from the nightmare behind her.

Later, when she would be asked to describe what happened that night, she would regret to inform everyone that she didn’t remember what had occurred next. Just that when she finally came back to herself, she was thirteen blocks away and sobbing in a children’s playground (her doctor would claim anxiety attack, her psychologist subconsciously repressed memories; both would agree to prescribe her Xanax).

When she finally stop crying enough to see clearly, Mitch called number five in her speed dial, ignoring the missed messages on her phone.

“What’s up Mitchy?” Geoff answered the phone on the third ring, his voice groggy with sleep.

“Geoffrey?” Mitch asked, hiccupping, “...can you come pick me up?”

She heard the telltale rustles of Geoff pulling himself from bed quickly, hopping around to pull on pants, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Mitch sighed shakily, shaking her head though no one could see, “No. No, not here. I’ll tell you after, but I need you. I’m sorry it’s late and that I’m bothering you and that I woke you up-” she rambled off into garbled tears and rushed breathing.

“Shh, shh, shh, baby,” he soothed, “it’s alright. I’m on my way to your place right now.”

“No,” Mitch jumped,” not my place. I’m at the park on Fisher and Bernstein..”

“Okay baby, I’m on my way to you,” he said, and Mitch heard the unmistakable rumble of his car’s engine starting. Just knowing that he was on his way calmed the girl ever so slightly.

“Alright,” she huffed, her breath still coming out hurried and choppy; from the running or sobbing, she wasn’t quite sure. “Geoffrey?”

“Yes Mitchy?”

“Can you stay on the line with me?”

“Of course I can.”

 

 

 

Thirty-six minutes later, Mitch found herself perched on Geoff’s bathroom counter. She tugged the blanket around her shoulders tighter while he rummaged around for his first aid kit.

 _“Who did this to you, baby?”_  he’d immediately asked when Mitch had sullenly gotten into the car. She’s avoided answering, but now, looking into the bathroom mirror, she can see why he’d been concerned.

Her freckles stand out brighter than usual, skin discoloured from a combination of crying and the cold, not to mention bruised where her father had slapped her. Along her hairline, blood is smeared in auburn curls and a small cut scabs over. Her eyes are bloodshot from the tears, her nails worried down to nothing in her panic, and her makeup smeared noir along her under eye.

“I look like a mess,” she deadpans.. Geoff chuckles from under the sink, coming out a moment later with a handful of gauze and a bottle of iodine.

“Hottest mess I’ve ever seen,” he teases lightly, smiling at his girlfriend as he takes her face in his hands.

“Have you seen yourself in the mornings? Pretty sure you take the cake for that one,” Mitch jokes as Geoff wipes away crusted blood from her forehead with a warm washcloth. Though he’s being gentle, she can’t help but wince.

His eyes flit from the cut to her grimace, “Sorry,” he apologizes, “but it has to be done.”

“It’s fine,” she shrugs, pulling the woollen blanket tighter again.

The bathroom falls silent again and Mitch feels like she could choke on the tension. However, despite the vibe of the room, Geoff continues to quietly bandage the cut on her head.

Eventually, it becomes too much for the redhead and she sighs heavily, “It was my father,” she blurts.

Geoff looks down from his work on her head and back up to properly look Mitch in the eye. His brows are furrowed in confusion as he asks, “What? How did that son of a bitch get his hands on you?”

 _Oh, right,_ Mitch remembers, _I didn’t tell him._ She shakes her head to exit her thoughts and finds Geoff to still be adeptly staring at her.

“He called me last week and asked if I would have dinner with him; so he could try and understand.”

“Wait, didn’t you block his number years ago?,” he questions. And then, “Your mother’s too, right?”

“Yeah, as soon as I moved out,” she reassures the older boy. “I guess he called me from a payphone or something…

“Anyway, whatever the asshole did to get through, I almost hung up on him. I see now that I probably should’ve, but he sounded so sincere,” she stopped to bite at the skin around her thumbnail, but Geoff stopped her hand halfway to her mouth. “Sorry.”

“So what? You decided to go without telling anyone?” his brows are furrowed again, but not out of anger. “I mean, damn straight I’m mad you didn’t tell me, but that’s not important right now. I just don’t see why you wouldn’t tell anyone, even Ray.”

Mitch shrugs,” I don’t know,” she huffs, “I didn’t want anyone to push me not to go; I thought the closure would be good for me. If I had known that he was drunk though.. I would never have showed up.

“God, he was so violent Geoff,” Mitch looked helplessly at her boyfriend, tears brimming on her lashes. “Even the night he found out he never-” she broke off with shaky breath.

“Breathe baby, just breathe,” he murmured, pulling the younger into a hug and stroking her hair gently. “I’ll deal with him in the morning,” he assured her, just shaking his head when she went to protest. “No, I’m doing something about this, but we don’t need to worry about that now; you need rest.”

And without another word, Geoff lifted Mitch from the counter and carried her into their adjoined bedroom. She changed quietly, Geoff catching sight of a bruise forming on her tailbone; he said nothing, but thought vividly of just what he’d do to Mr. Jones tomorrow..

“Come here, asshole,” Mitch called, suddenly jolting the man from his daze. She was sitting in bed, crosslegged, and pulled her glasses off a Geoff joined her.

And while he knew it didn’t do anything to undo the trauma she had experienced that night, well, Geoff might have just held Mitch a little closer than usual, guarding her as they fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Foster the People's "Warrant"


End file.
